Wonder what your grandmother would've said about my brother dressing me in boy's clothes when I was a toddler. He couldn't get over the fact I wasn't born male, so he tried to turn me into a boy by dressing me in boy clothes and using his military toys to teach me how to play "war." It didn't work, and I think he resented me ever since for not being a boy.

I was watching a show about Baden-Powell, founder of Scouting, hero of the Boer War, "manly man" of the early 20th Century. They showed a photo of him as a toddler ... as was apparently the custom at the time, the boy was in a foofy dress with girly curls, indistinguishable from a little girl. I don't know why that was the custom, but he seemed to have grown up without gender issues (even if he was a fairly odd bird as an adult).

They kept little boys in dresses until they were reliably potty-trained. Easier to access the, er, working bits, you know. And when a boy graduated to pants, it was a big ceremonial occasion.

I recall similar pictures of boys in paintings from the colonial era as well as the Victorian.

I have pictures of my grandfather (born 1912) in simple dresses and shoulder length ringlets.

Wonder what your grandmother would've said about my brother dressing me in boy's clothes when I was a toddler. He couldn't get over the fact I wasn't born male, so he tried to turn me into a boy by dressing me in boy clothes and using his military toys to teach me how to play "war." It didn't work, and I think he resented me ever since for not being a boy.

I was watching a show about Baden-Powell, founder of Scouting, hero of the Boer War, "manly man" of the early 20th Century. They showed a photo of him as a toddler ... as was apparently the custom at the time, the boy was in a foofy dress with girly curls, indistinguishable from a little girl. I don't know why that was the custom, but he seemed to have grown up without gender issues (even if he was a fairly odd bird as an adult).

They kept little boys in dresses until they were reliably potty-trained. Easier to access the, er, working bits, you know. And when a boy graduated to pants, it was a big ceremonial occasion.

I recall similar pictures of boys in paintings from the colonial era as well as the Victorian.

I have pictures of my grandfather (born 1912) in simple dresses and shoulder length ringlets.

She would also criticize me for going to the Met Gift Shop today to meet Placido Domingo.

My mother was the same way. In fact, as a teenager, I was pretty much forbidden to do volunteer work. If I wanted to work, then spend the time and effort on a "real" job. I can imagine what she would have thought of the community service that many high school students must perform in order to graduate.

The problem with this is that, at least where I live, it's practically required to do a voluntary job first, usually in a charity shop, because very few places will hire you with no experience. I was the rare exception to the rule, but many of my friends worked weekends in charity shops for a couple of months between 14 and 16 so they could learn things like working a till, helping stock shelves, etc.

She would also criticize me for going to the Met Gift Shop today to meet Placido Domingo.

My mother was the same way. In fact, as a teenager, I was pretty much forbidden to do volunteer work. If I wanted to work, then spend the time and effort on a "real" job. I can imagine what she would have thought of the community service that many high school students must perform in order to graduate.

The problem with this is that, at least where I live, it's practically required to do a voluntary job first, usually in a charity shop, because very few places will hire you with no experience. I was the rare exception to the rule, but many of my friends worked weekends in charity shops for a couple of months between 14 and 16 so they could learn things like working a till, helping stock shelves, etc.

Volunteering was a requirement to graduate high school where I live. You had to have at least a 100 hours IIRC. There were a lot of kid scrambling Senior year trying to get those hours in...I had mine done Freshman year.

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Meditate. Live purely. Quiet the mind. Do your work with mastery. Like the moon, come out from behind the clouds! Shine. ---Gautama Buddah

In my high school years community service as being described here was not required. We were required to do some volunteer time within the school itself during junior and senior year. For me that meant being in the Speech Department's office during first period to help grade papers, type, or make copies.

They kept little boys in dresses until they were reliably potty-trained. Easier to access the, er, working bits, you know. And when a boy graduated to pants, it was a big ceremonial occasion.

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I wonder how long that went on for? I still have my Grandad's ayrshire whitework dress, and he was born in 1914.

As for odd criticisms- my mother never likes to see me in lilac or any sort of pale purple. She doesn't get why I like chunky jewelry either, and thinks it should be small and delicate. Which looks great on her- she's very petite, but not so good on plus sized me- you wouldn't even notice I was wearing anything!

Hugs to all of you who had to deal with so much parental criticism. The stories are making me sad.

But wondering if I'm the only parent reading these fearing I'll recognize myself in these stories.

I admit it makes me wonder just what my kids might someday say about me. I know I'm not perfect either, but I take some comfort in the fact that they all still want hugs and kisses from me and come to me with their problems.

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Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars. You have a right to be here. Be cheerful, strive to be happy. -Desiderata

Hugs to all of you who had to deal with so much parental criticism. The stories are making me sad.

But wondering if I'm the only parent reading these fearing I'll recognize myself in these stories.

I admit it makes me wonder just what my kids might someday say about me. I know I'm not perfect either, but I take some comfort in the fact that they all still want hugs and kisses from me and come to me with their problems.

BC (Before Children) my goal was that my offspring not have to go to therapy. Now I joke that I'll be happy if it's only a year or two. My DSs find that funny. DS1 assures me he's only needed a session or two.

Hugs to all of you who had to deal with so much parental criticism. The stories are making me sad.

But wondering if I'm the only parent reading these fearing I'll recognize myself in these stories.

I admit it makes me wonder just what my kids might someday say about me. I know I'm not perfect either, but I take some comfort in the fact that they all still want hugs and kisses from me and come to me with their problems.

Yeah, I worry a little too.

I've been trying to think of criticisms from my folks, and other than my dad crabbing about not emptying a suitcase when I came home from a trip, I can't really think of any.

I can vaguely remember having been criticized FAIRLY.

So I'm hoping that I'll have been shaped by my parents, and my kids won't really think that I criticize them much.

My mother was adamant that I not register to vote (never mind just about everyone else in my family is...) and got mad at me when I did anyway while I was away at college. It was during a presidential election, so I needed an absentee ballot since I was in another state at the time. I never got it, so I couldn't even actually vote that year (and then she proceeded to rub it in my face when her candidate won - we don't see eye to eye politics wise ). When I asked why, she said she didn't want me being called for jury duty. When I asked what was so bad about jury duty, she had no answer. She at least seems to have gotten over that, though.

She's also criticized what field I wanted to go into and keep bringing up other fields she thought I should go into (and would get really pushy about it). Even when I did look into one of her suggestions (occupational therapy), she turned around and started saying it was a bad idea for me to go into it because I'd have to touch people a lot (yet she also suggested physical therapy and massage therapy as possible careers...oooookay...). When I pointed out she had suggested it and even had me talk to one of her patients who was in that field, she claimed "oh, it was just a suggestion, just exploring options". Whatever field I pick always seems to be wrong. For psychology: "but you'll be dealing with really crazy people and you'll get killed!" (ugh...) For speech therapy (wherein she even once offered to buy me a car if I would go into that instead of psych): "but you barely know how to talk yourself!"/"you sound like an FOB!". I give up...

Is there a chance you didn't get your absentee ballot because you Mom stole it to vote for her choice. I had a friend at school that that happened to. She had the same fight about her field, and ended up cutting her mom off as soon as she graduated. She was afraid I would think she was a terrible person because I have this huge extended family and was always doing things with them. I told her no we'll just adopt you into our family. (A good portion of my extended family are people that have dysfunctional families of their own - so they get invited to our stuff instead).

I actually hadn't thought of that (would that work if that was the case? o.o), though I'd requested the ballot be sent to my address at school, not home. Though both the state I went to school in and my home state are considered the opposite color of her candidate, so I don't even know that would've made a difference either way (plus the rest of my family votes the opposite of me anyway, so there'd be more than enough votes to "cancel" mine out even if I could vote then).

Oh, another story: one Christmas Eve I had on white pants. Mom insisted I change because it "wouldn't look good" that I was wearing white pants since my brother was wearing khakis (huh?). She refused to leave me alone about it until I grudgingly changed to blue jeans just to get her off my back and so we could leave for the party we were going to. Multiple people (including my other brother) were wearing blue jeans - I don't get why that was so different or what was so unacceptable about one person wearing white pants and the other khakis. Though this is kind of part of a pattern where she'll heed my brothers's preferences but not mine. Brothers don't want to go somewhere? OK. I don't want to go? Too bad, going anyway. Brothers want a certain pizza topping? Sure, we'll get it. I want a different pizza topping? Nope, we're getting what your brothers want (even when said brothers said they were fine with what I picked). Brothers don't want an offered dish? Fine. I don't want a dish? Too bad, on my plate it goes (and they laughed if I pointed out I'd said no, I did not want it). And then she wonders why I have trouble saying no or what I want...

She also had something against me wearing dark colored (especially black) tops (but dark bottoms were OK by her), to the point where even when I had a black shirt picked out (which she had seen and bought) for my senior pictures she still sent me a bright pink top to wear instead.